


So Long Sentiment

by hktk



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Drabble Collection, EmetWoL Week (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hktk/pseuds/hktk
Summary: It doesn't matter now.--Collection of drabbles that I'll hopefully get to during the week for EmetWol Week on twitter. They will be done eventually if not during this week.Chapters named after the prompts for easy viewing.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	So Long Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This is my first public fic for the XIV fandom and I hope you all enjoy it. It's a little on the short side compared to my other writings, but it was fun to write nonetheless. Lovely prompts from Emetwol Week, so I couldn't help myself. Thank you!
> 
> For a visual reference of my Azem, see [here](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ehz2tY-X0AIXSLv?format=jpg&name=large). 
> 
> Read the end notes for more information & contact!

The morning dew smelled fresh. It seemed it had just rained, and the air was thick with humidity. The dawn light filtered in through the window of the Bureau, and Emet-Selch stared outside at the rising sun, watching it take up as much sky as it possibly could. 

It was quiet.

He tapped the pen against the desk idly, not really registering the sound, resting his head in his palm as his elbow propped itself on the desk. There were various documents of concepts that needed approval (or disapproval) lying around on the desk, each one in different stages of production. Several from Lahabrea, even, as the man couldn’t stop creating concepts for the life of himself. Emet-Selch looked back down at the documents, pushing Lahabrea’s aside to see one from, curiously enough, Azem. 

At least, it was written by them. There were some little notes here and there not in their handwriting—presumably, this was Elidibus giving his two cents. Elidibus was still relatively new to the Convocation, and Azem, staying in Amaurot for a while longer, would—as much as possible—include him in things, including silly little concepts such as the one currently before the most esteemed Emet-Selch. 

It was a most curious design. It had no specific function other than to look  _ pretty _ . Azem called it a “windchime”, and it was to be hung up and, when the wind would blow,  _ sound _ pretty, too. It was fashioned after a bird, one so  _ teal  _ that the illustration on the paper hurt Emet’s eyes (no doubt this was Elidibus’s choice, ever the one to be piss-poor at color theory), and the various feathers of its tail hung down—these were the “chimes”, the items which would ring in the wind. Its wings were outspread, wide and proud, with its chest puffed out. 

But more curious than the design itself was the description, which read (in sloppy handwriting—Azem’s) as follows: 

‘The windchime of the Iksailo. With the height of thirty-six fulm and the wingspan of twenty-five, rather than being intimidating or imposing, it is to invoke feelings of happiness that can only come from the heavens. When you see it, you should know that you have been protected. 

‘It is to be hung in the Macarenses Angle at the earliest convenience, once created. It should carry a gentle and elegant feeling, and there should be a breeze that eternally surrounds it, so that its sound is always heard. 

‘Inspired by seeing statues and hearing myths from a place far, far off.’ 

Emet heaved a sigh. It was such a...sentimental thing. Azem always  _ was _ sentimental, and so were their creations. He rubbed his forehead before standing, placing the concepts’ documents into their respective folders—though he brought the ‘windchime’ with him, as he hurried out of his office. 

He was very lucky that he did not meet Hythlodaeus on the way out. He would have been caught up in whatever fancy talks the other would want for him. He was similarly lucky that, as he scoured the city for his quarry, he did not run into any other Convocation members, specifically the nuisance named Elidibus. 

Eventually, he found them predictably in the Marcarenses Angle, sitting on a bench and kicking their feet. Just like Emet-Selch, Azem was an early riser—the bright light of the sun was still coming up, at Emet’s back, pressing down with some heat that he could feel even through his robes. He adjusted his mask before pressing forward after a brief pause at the edge of the Angle. Coming to a stop in front of them, he held out the paper, knowing that the other could not see what it was in the dawn light. “What is this?” 

As such, Azem did not look up as they softly exclaimed, “Ah, esteemed Emet-Selch!” They fussed with the string game in their hands, then removed it and pocketed it, finally raising their head to  _ gaze _ at Emet-Selch. There was a smile on their face, plain as day, and it seemed they knew exactly what he was talking about, yet deigned not to speak. 

Their soul was as bright as the sun. Perhaps even brighter, and he knew for certain that it was  _ warmer _ . He almost envied the other’s almost complete lack of sight, if only because the brightness they gave off inhibited all his other senses until he got used to it after a few moments. He blinked several times, then sat on the bench next to them, heaving another, quite exasperated sigh. 

“Where did you learn of this... this  _ guardian _ ?” 

“Oh, it was just the other day,” Azem began explaining, chipper—perhaps too much so—and eager. “I met a nice group of people who worshipped the heavens in the most fun way! They taught me all about Guardia, who that windchime is fashioned after. She can protect everyone but she can also be rather hot-headed, and she can whip up storms and tempests in but a blink of an eye!” 

“And you want to  _ honor _ her? Here, where no one but you knows of her?” 

Azem moved closer, so that their thighs touched. Emet-Selch didn’t move, though he  _ did _ tense up slightly, as he did with every bit of touch. “Oh,” said Azem, low and quiet, “but  _ you _ know of her now, don’t you?” They closed their eyes in a cheery smile, though it was every bit as sly as Emet-Selch thought it’d be. “Come now. It’ll be nice to have a decoration or two around this place. Isn’t it getting a little dreary?” 

“That’s only because you’re never here.” 

“Ha! Are you saying I brighten your day?” 

Emet sputtered. “I-I wasn’t saying anything of the sort. I  _ meant _ —” 

“Yes, yes, I know what you  _ meant _ ,” Azem teased, getting to their feet. They took Emet’s face in both of their hands—calloused yet soft, the mark of a traveler of days old—and gazed down at him for quite a bit of time. As Emet’s face slowly grew darker and darker in embarrassment, before Emet could swat them away, Azem leaned down, kissing him softly on the lips. 

“Here,” they said, digging something out of their pockets and placing it in the stunned-silent Emet-Selch’s hand. They closed his fingers around it. “Take this. It’s from the Iksailo. It’ll protect you from the tempests and storms when I can’t.” 

They laughed, from the chest, and turned on their heels, stepping through a portal without another word. 

Emet-Selch looked down to the charm in his hand—fashioned in the same manner as the windchime. The feathers were soft to the touch, but he was still thinking of the touch of their hands. 

He sighed for the third time since the day began, and he stood. 

— 

He sighed for what seemed like the umpeenth time that day, and he sat. 

The steps were cold beneath him, and it was dark all around him. There was no sun here, under this vast sea, in this recreated Amaurot that was only a pale comparison to what it once was. Still, Emet-Selch couldn’t help feeling at  _ home _ in this copied city. 

His heart ached. It yearned. It cried, kicked, and screamed. And now, it resigned itself. 

Just like Emet-Selch was resigned to meet his doom sooner rather than later. 

He thought it might be nice to take a nap, of course. One much longer than his last one, but a nap nonetheless. 

Emet-Selch pulled something from his pocket. It was only by creation magicks that he was able to keep it in such good shape, though part of him felt guilty for changing the outward appearance of the small charm in the shape of a bird every so often. Even snapping his fingers and willing away the dirt made him wish that he hadn’t done it. So, lately, he hadn’t done anything like that. 

It was barely a cyan-color anymore, dyed dark with dirt and dried blood. The feathers were all frayed at the edge, and it was missing its beak. It had certainly seen better days, but so had he.

He held it up, and conveniently, a small breeze happened upon him and these steps. The feathers of the charm shook, and he closed his eyes, taking in the pleasant melody for a few moments. Someone approached him, yet he kept his eyes closed. 

It was only when they collapsed in front of him did he lower the charm, setting it gently on the steps next to where he was sitting. He opened his eyes, looking down upon the man in front of him with some sort of forlorn  _ disdain _ . Disappointment. Yearning. Kicking, screaming, aching. 

“E-Emet-Selch.” The man, brought low to his knees before the Ascian, coughed and coughed, white  _ light _ sputtering onto the black surface of the Amaurotine streets. He tried to maintain eye contact, but it was clear that he was going to break at any moment. His now porcelain-like skin was even cracking. 

Emet-Selch, at first, made no move. Then, he stood, taking a few steps towards the man, and knelt down. Gently, as this man had done so many years ago that he could no longer remember, cupped his cheeks, smoothing a thumb over his skin. The man hissed at some pain against a crack, but when both of their lips connected, he quieted. 

“My dear traveler,” Emet-Selch said, breath mingling with the other’s, the vomited light upon his lips stinging his very core, “welcome home to the dark.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The Warrior of Light is my own, Halcy Valentine, who you can read about [here](https://halcy.crd.co/). 
> 
> [Feel free to reach out to me on twitter: nhago_a!](https://twitter.com/nhago_a)


End file.
